A/N: I do not own Red Pants, those belong to Reapersun. I also do not own Sherlock or John. Written for the September FuckYeahJohnlockFanfic challenge.
Everything Sherlock had been about to say shuddered to a stop when he glanced down. He blinked once, twice, seeing red. No, Sherlock wasn't upset, cross, or any of the other synonyms for being angry with a person; Sherlock Holmes was staring at the pants of one John Hamish Watson.
Perhaps it would be best if we started this story at the beginning though, back before our dear consulting detective (the only one in the world) was rendered speechless by a simple pair of pants.
Earlier in the day…
Sherlock was busy with his experiments as usual, spreading chemicals around on the kitchen table, John huffing from the doorway. John had just gotten back to the flat from clinic hours and had just wanted to make a spot of dinner before settling down with The Sun, a hot cuppa and maybe a few of the McVities biscuits he had hidden away from Sherlock. Instead, the kitchen table and most of the counter space was littered with beakers and other unknown bottles and boxes, containing only god-knows-what.
"Sherlock, couldn't you just use the equipment at Bart's? Molly wouldn't mind." John knew it was hopeless to ask him, but did so anyway, taking off his coat and tossing it over his chair.
Sherlock didn't even glance in John's direction and remained quiet for so long that John wasn't sure if Sherlock had heard him at all. "You know I can't do that, I need to be able to watch over them at all times."
"Christ Sherlock, we talked about this! I want the counter space, that's all. I want to be able to come home and make dinner and relax." John's emotions were being exacerbated by the fact that he was bone tired and a bit out of sorts for reasons of another kind. John threw up his hands, moving into the kitchen to clean off just enough space to make toast if nothing else.
Sherlock lunged in front of him as he went to move a beaker full of some blue liquid. "Don't touch that!" Sherlock screeched, knocking it over in his haste, the beaker hitting the counter, liquid spraying across both of their clothing. "Strip. Now," commanded Sherlock as he began to pull at the buttons of his shirt.
John stood stock still, eyes unmoving as Sherlock revealed more of his pale skin, the same pale skin that kept John up at night. It had all started out nicely as a flat-share, but somewhere along the way John had found himself uncomfortably attached to the English Adonis of a man standing before him.
Sherlock's shirt was on the floor before he realised John had yet to move. "John, that chemical is extremely corrosive, please remove your clothing."
Nope. John was in a dream, he'd fallen asleep at work and any moment now he'd wake up, usually right around the point Sherlock's trousers fell around his ankles. See, John had had this dream before, the one he dubbed his 'oh-no-I-spilled-dangerous-chemicals-get-naked' dream. It seemed to be a recurring favourite, and the most sensible, seeing as there was no other way Sherlock would willingly strip for him.
John was happy to stand there and let the dream unfold, that is until Sherlock was grabbing him, pulling John's jumper over his head and John realised that this dream seemed a bit more real than the others.
"John, are you deaf? I need you to remove your clothes!" Sherlock was shaking John now, worried that some side-effect had overcome John and the man was now paralysed.
John slowly began to realise that, in this very inopportune moment, he was indeed awake and his insane flatmate was asking him to remove his clothing. John blinked once, twice, a third time even before he began to unbutton his shirt, an unseemly odour wafting in his nose.
Sherlock, upon seeing that John had regained use of his motor function, finished removing his trousers and tossed them into the kitchen sink, turning around to collect John's when he came face-to-face with the most startling red pants he'd ever seen.
Sherlock worked his mouth, attempting to ask John to hand him the clothes sitting on the floor but found himself rendered speechless, a sensation that was quite unsettling. "John," he croaked out, eyes locked on John's crotch, his own giving an unseemly, horribly ill-timed twinge.
"Sherlock?" John asked, hoping that Sherlock was all right, the man was growing paler by the second. He followed Sherlock's gaze to his pelvis, realising the detective was caught on what John perceived to be the unsightly bulge in the pants he had thrown on in his haste this morning. "I, erm, I can explain."
Sherlock let out a strangled cry as he dove towards John, his fingers slipping into the band of John's pants, pulling the elastic towards him, peering down.
"Sherlock!" John yelled, swatting Sherlock's head with his hand. "Remember the 'John is not an experiment' rule?" John grimaced, trying to get Sherlock's attention away from his cock that apparently had decided it was going to blatantly ignore the war raging on inside John and salute Sherlock. John pressed a hand to his face, the colouring matching his pants, as he peeked through his fingers.
"Hmm." Sherlock said, pulling away from John before grabbing his hand.
"Sherlock what are you doing?" John asked, his eyes going wide as Sherlock pulled John into the small bathroom.
"Off," was all Sherlock gave as an explanation before turning the faucet, waiting for the water to warm as he discarded his very normal, very correctly fitting pants to the floor.
John had decided he was in a coma; there was no other excuse really for him to be having such a vivid dream that made absolutely no sense. Yes, he did own the pair of red pants currently starring in this dream, the ones that were just a bit too tight and a fair amount shorter than anything else he owned, but they had been a gag gift from some of the blokes he had served with, and John had needed a fresh pair this morning after his shower.
John regained his focus on an angry-looking Sherlock who would have seemed a bit more formidable had he not been completely nude and half-hard. John was pretty sure he almost choked on his tongue as Sherlock moved towards him, his left hand reaching out towards John.
John took a step backwards, running into the sink as his heart took a nosedive into his stomach, his lungs collapsing in on him. He felt as if the room was shrinking around him, the steam coming off the shower suffocating him as those damnably long fingers stretched towards him, hooking around the elastic of his pants.
"Where did you get these?" Sherlock snarled, looking as if he might swallow John whole and god if that didn't set him on fire.
John remembered opening and shutting his mouth a couple times with only the small noise of whooshing of air past his oesophagus making it out. John closed his mouth and pointedly tried to ignore the fact that there was currently a very Sherlockian hand residing near his prick and that if Sherlock moved his hand just a few centimetres lower then John would definitely lose every bit of the self-control he was desperately grasping onto.
A few moments and an impatient huff from Sherlock later, John realised that he had yet to answer Sherlock's question. "Gift. From the blokes I served with."
Sherlock raised a delicate eyebrow, a smirk crossing his face. "Perhaps then I should, as they say, send them a thank you note."
Yes, John was most definitely dreaming or in a coma, because this was most definitely not the Sherlock he had been living with for the past year. John swallowed thickly as Sherlock's fingers curled even tighter around the band of his pants and began to drag them down John's body. "I-you-what? Sherlock, what the bloody hell is going on?"
Sherlock stopped, the smirk falling off of his face as confusion flashed across it before quickly being replaced by anger before the man turned stone-faced, showing no emotion at all. "It's those pants John," Sherlock answered, his voice grating slowly across every one of John's nerves.
"What about them?" Chunks of understanding were falling into place for John. Perhaps he hadn't been alone all this time with these unnecessary feelings for his flatmate. Perhaps Sherlock had finally realised that human interaction, particularly of the sexual persuasion was not a bad thing. John laughed. He was losing it, that's what this all was, had to be.
Sherlock stared at John, unwavering. "They're red."
"Well yeah," John laughed, uncrossing his arms, "doesn't take a consulting detective to figure that one out."
"But you don't wear pants like that John. This, whatever it is," Sherlock waved a hand in the air and John was trying very hard in vain not to notice Sherlock's now fully erect cock waving with him. "It's ridiculous. Especially for me, I don't have feelings of, well this nature."
John bit his tongue, keeping in a laugh as Sherlock gestured to his penis as if the body part in question offended him in some way. John still wasn't sure how they had gotten here really, but he was never one to question things when they were so neatly gifted to him, naked and all. "Sherlock, it's human, you're human and as much as your try and fight it, these things happen."
Sherlock looked as if he were about to start in on one of his transport arguments so John did the only thing he could think of to shut the man up; he pulled off his pants. John had to admit it was a brilliant plan until he realised that perhaps it had been Sherlock's plan all along, seeing as Sherlock was stalking towards him, a purely predatory look on his face.
"I, erm, Sherlock look-" John was cut off from his argument as Sherlock tentatively pressed his lips against John's almost as if her were terrified of John running away.
John's arguments about how Sherlock would grow bored of all of this died on his tongue as Sherlock slipped a hand into John's hair, tugging at the tawny strands lightly.
John wasn't quite sure how or when they made it into the shower, he only knew that Sherlock was attached to him by the mouth and didn't seem to be planning to let go soon, especially when Sherlock was doing oh-christ-how-did-he-even-know things to John's mouth with his tongue.
John's hands made their way down Sherlock's back, sliding slickly across wet skin until he was cupping Sherlock's arse, something he had dreamt about doing for a while.
Sherlock gasped into John's mouth as John's fingers teased at the cleft of Sherlock's arse, dipping between the cheeks occasionally.
Sherlock slipped a hand between him and John, grasping their cocks in his hand as he slid them together, the water from the shower causing a sweet slide between their pricks.
John moaned into Sherlock's shoulder, "How the hell do you fucking know-"
A quick thrust of Sherlock's hips cut off whatever John was going to say as he keened, biting into the flesh of Sherlock's shoulder.
"I did some research," Sherlock choked out as John's hands joined his, tightening the grip between them as John's head lolled on Sherlock's shoulder. Bloody hell this was better than any dream John had ever had and it was all so blessedly real that John perhaps thought he might just combust and melt into a puddle there in the shower.
Sherlock slid his hand from in John's hair to John's hip, holding him still as Sherlock thrust himself against John, needing friction. Every neuron was in overdrive and Sherlock felt as if he had completely lost control, a feeling so terrifying and surreal that he was sure that this could quite possibly kill him. Ever since he had realised that John was consuming his thoughts, making it harder to think at crime scenes, making his fingers twitch when they were alone in the flat, Sherlock knew he would have to do something. John was absolutely intoxicating and worse than any drug habit Sherlock had ever had.
It wasn't hard for him to figure out if John felt the same way. A touch here, a lingering glance there told Sherlock everything he had needed to know and so he had set about breaking down John's inhibitions one by one until they had become this writhing, noisy mess in the shower.
"Fuck, Sherlock," cried John, fingers digging into Sherlock's arm and arse, face pressed into Sherlock's chest and then John was coming, white dots beating at his eyelids as he released, feeling so sated that he didn't give a fuck one way or another if it had taken much less time than anytime ever before.
John did smirk to himself that his orgasm was enough to send Sherlock toppling over the edge, John's name falling gloriously beautiful from Sherlock's lips to John's ear as Sherlock collapsed against him, John struggling to keep them both upright.
Sherlock blinked himself back into existence, his breathing evening out as hot water pounded on his back, alerting him that he was indeed, still in the shower with John. John. Shower. Red pants. Oh hell. "John, I erm-"
John pressed a finger to Sherlock's lips, shushing him. "Don't ruin it. Let me have this moment of peace before you go mucking all of this up by blathering on about lack of feelings and professionalism and whatnot. Let me be happy for once dammit," John growled, daring to look Sherlock in the eye.
Sherlock was taken aback by how John seemed to feel happy about all of this, hadn't Sherlock just made a right mess of things? "You're happy, with this?"
"How are you so slow on the uptake of some things Sherlock? No, I usually don't jump into the shower and get off with men that don't make me happy." John inhaled sharply as the final piece of the puzzle in this crazy mess of a day fit into place. "That wasn't chemicals in the beaker was it?"
"No, merely dish soap and water." A terribly uncomfortable and foreign feeling blossomed in Sherlock's chest as he looked down at John. Brilliant John, John that had saved his life, John that had always been there, Army Medic John, his John. Sherlock inhaled deeply at the last one. His John. Yes, he quite liked the sound of that. "My John," he whispered pulling John close.
John stared unabashedly up at Sherlock, his heart swelling as he reached for the soap to clean them up. "My Sherlock."